


Rigour

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Community: contrelamontre, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-07
Updated: 2003-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn tries to right harsh words with action.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rigour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/profile)[**contrelamontre**](http://contrelamontre.livejournal.com/)'s Imperfect Sex Challenge. Time limit: 60 minutes.

They had quarrelled, exchanged harsh words in the cold light of dawn, breath puffing out anger and petty jealousies in clouds of white. They had quarrelled for a time, but softer sentiments had lately healed the rift between them, and that was all the proof Aragorn needed to know that what they now shared was right. It was only right to follow words with action, to demonstrate their convictions to one another, and it was more important than ever to carry out that demonstration before Boromir left the ever dwindling Fellowship, following the path beneath his feet to his own city.

Aragorn knew it was right, but Boromir resisted this last union, leaving the Ranger puzzled but resolute. He struggled against the other man, the two bodies rolling in the leaves until Boromir lay quiet on his stomach. Twigs cracked and broke underneath their combined weight. Aragorn fumbled at the ties of his own breeches, flicked Boromir's cloak up and over his shoulders, pushing at the enormous amounts of fabric that lay between them. Boromir made no move to assist him, but neither did he actively challenge the invasion. Cloth pooling around Boromir's middle, Aragorn plucked at the man's breeches, tugged them down to his ankles. There was no time for foreplay. They had not had the luxury of time since Lórien, and now was no exception. The heir of Isildur would couple one more time with the Steward's son, and the latter would carry his seed to the city of the White Tree, lay claim in his absence to what was his as a living, breathing symbol of Númenor and Gondor reclaimed, renewed, restored. That was the way it had to be.

Aragorn held Boromir tightly in his arms, bent at the waist; he pushed him into the ground as he pushed himself inside, hard and slick with spit, blood and sweat. He pressed insistently past the ring of muscle, did not wait for the loosening, the acceptance that came with proper preparation. He hissed as he entered, cursing at the warmth, wincing at the inevitable tearing. He thrust into the younger man, a slow, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. Boromir lurched forward and back with each thrust, propped awkwardly on his arms in the dirt, but he refused to grind himself onto Aragorn, refused to show any sign of excitement. Aragorn scrabbled at Boromir's back with hands dark with blood and dirt, a stark contrast to the white skin of Boromir's lower back. Boromir's buttocks and legs reddened a little more with each thrust, blushing, then mottling and bruising while his back seemed to be slowly draining of all colour, moving further into the pale.

Aragorn reached around Boromir's waist, feeling for his cock; it was limp and unresponsive in his hand. He tugged at it a few times, hoping to feel a twitch or two of interest, but quickly gave up. He was gasping now, moaning his lover's name, a plea against their parting. His free hand drifted up to Boromir's face, tracing features that stiffened under his touch.

Boromir grew cold, yet Aragorn felt nothing but a spatter of tears on his cheeks. His thrusts were mechanical now, delivered numbly, without passion. He heard nothing but the pounding of his blood in his ears, his throat issuing soundless appeals to Boromir, to Eru, to the Valar.

After a time, a soft, insistent voice penetrated his self-imposed haze. "...Aragorn ...Aragorn."

Aragorn looked up, dropping Boromir's body to the ground as Legolas and Gimli came close.

Legolas placed an arm on his shoulder. "He has passed on to the halls of Mandos. He cannot hear you now. Come. Come with me." He drew Aragorn a little way away from the spectacle, stopping only to gently tug his breeches closed. "There is still much to do. Gimli will array him as a warrior deserves, and we must prepare to follow where the Uruks will go."

Gimli stooped to the body, began straightening skewed limbs, picking up the ends of the arrows that had broken off during this strange union.

The tears fell faster now, silently tracing paths through the grime on Aragorn's face. "...Dead?"

"Yes."

He turned away and let himself be led.


End file.
